


The Inner Party

by It_Is_A_Secret



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age 2
Genre: BDSM, Begging, Bondage, D/s, Dom!Hawke, Dom/sub, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Incest, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex Toys, Sibling Incest, Sub!Carver, Templar Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3860833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/It_Is_A_Secret/pseuds/It_Is_A_Secret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill of this kinkmeme prompt:<br/>"Garrett/Carver, at the Amell estate. Besides the incest kink, I want Garrett to be all dom over Carver, with bondage, toys, etc. etc."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Party

The party is a success. The finest Orlesian's fabbrics shine, glistening and glimmering in the candlelight, the subtle scents of liquors and beewax mingle in the air, the mellow sounds of the musician proides background to the iddle chatters and clicking of crystal glasses.

I smile to everybody, shaking hands and chatting politics and the most recent news from Fereldan and Orlais and I debate the wisdom of buying another ship with a dark dwaren merchant and I laugh softly at them all. They compliment my strange leather clothes and I smile and say I disliked to dress as everybody else. The women fawn over the jewels on my daggers, as if they were an article of jewelry instead of my favourite way to give death.

Mother stops me while I am showing the black opal of my left dagger to some nobleling or another.

"Darling, did you see Carver? He was here ten minutes ago..."

I smile at her. "No, Mother. He must be in some other room."

She frowns. "I guess..."

"Leandra, dear! You wouldn't know what De Launcet did!"

I take a dancing step aside as a woman takes Mother with her, and I smile softly. I turn again to play wolf in sheep's hide, or mage in noble's clothes, with some other simpering idiot.

But soon, soon nobody notices me anymore. I slip away, quietly, my soft slippers silent in the musical night. I walk up, to my room. Slowly. There is no hurry. Every step is a step less in my journey, and anticipation is a pleasure in itself.

But in the end I cannot dally anymore. I am in front of my own door. I take a deep breath and close my eyes and I smile, my own secret smile.

I open the door and step inside.

Carver is here, all steel armor and long skirts. Only his sword he doesn't have. His back, shown to me, is bare. I spend a second looking at him. He doesn't know I am here, not yet. This, too, is a pleasure of sort. The firelight gives his black hair a lustrous shine. He blocks almost all of it from where I stand, big and strong and mine.

My brother.

"Carver" I call, softly. He doesn't turn but the metal jingles as he stiffens and relaxes. I walk toward the cabinet and pour myself a glass of soft, sweet wine. I like sweet things.  I call the magic, the silence that won't allow anybody outside of the room to hear us.

It may be needed.

"The chestplate and pauldrons and the gauntlets. Take them off. And kneel." He can hear me, I know, over the sound of the uncorked bottle and the splash of the liquid in the glass and the clicking of the ice. And I can hear him, the breath hitching in his throat and the clicking of the metals as he does as I ordered. I wait, looking at my bed and sipping my drink, the wine sparkling in my mouth. It tastes good. Like a cool autumn day.

Like anticipation.

I hear nothing more. I turn.

Carver is facing me now, his bare chest rising and falling with his laboured breathing, the tattoo almost alive on his left breast. The light highlight all of him now, every dimple of flesh and muscle and bone, his blue eyes almost black as he looks at me. He is trembling slightly. If he fears or anticipates me, I cannot tell. He kneels with the practice eased of one who spends far too much time in that blasted Chantry. The flaming sword of his chestplate is still by him, the hated symbol almost a mockery now.

I smile at him, a quick upturning of my lips "Good boy." My voice is soft and it carries in spite of its quietness. He closes his eyes and shudders. I walk to him as I speak. I am hard. Too hard. I sit at my armchair in front of him and consider the options. It had been too long since we did this. Far too long.

I balance the long-stemmed glass on the armrest and caress the red velvet. His blue eyes follow every movement of mine. Every breath and shift.

As do mine to his.

I open my legs a little.

"Suck me off." The command is calm and soft still. I watch his Adam's apple move as he swallows. His tongue darts out to moist his lips, so very eager. "Your mouth only, Carver."

He put his hand on his thighs and lowers his head to my crotch. I forgets to breathe for a second at the sight of his dark head so close so my cock, and I shudder. Then his lips mouth me from the clothes, almost reverently. I caress his black hair. Silky, always so silky.

He is deft, my little brother. This is not a new game between us. He tugs at the laces with his teeth, and soon frees my erection. The cool air almost caress it, but a warm wetness engulf me. I choke from pleasure and curl my fingers in the armrests. His tongue massage me, up and down and up again as he swallows me to the root. He rests there, his nose on my belly, his breath tickling my wiry air and the tip of my cock tickling the back of his throat, his muscles massaging it as he swallows around the head, sending sparkles of pleasure to cloud my thoughts. He has no gag reflex. We trained it out long ago.

Then he takes up the pace I like, fast and vigorous. Soon I am moaning, my hand fisting his hair. He hums something, the vibrations traveling up my cock and directly to my ball. I almost laugh when I recognize the patterns of the Chant of Light. He moves faster now and laughter is the last thing in my mind, his tongue caressing the underside, his lips sucking me as if I was his only source of air: desperately and needy. I look down. His eyes are close, his too smart lips slick with spit and stretched around my width.

Oh yes, yes indeed.

"You... are made for this. To suck my cock." I pant, and he says nothing, just fuck his own throat harder with my cock.

I am close. So close...

I whisper and come. As he feels the pulsing of my cock in his mouth he opens his eyes and he looks into mine as I empty myself into his mouth. He swallows it all, every single drop, with practiced ease.

I collapse on the back of the armchair, breathing deeply, waiting for the aftershock to subside. He keeps his mouth around my cock as it shrinks, warming it without touching it. I caress his hair, and he exhales.

Good boy indeed.

I straighten up and smile again, caressing his check and moving his head backward. He obeys and my cock pop out of his mouth, slick with his spit. I study him. His lips are swollen and slick, his eyes almost all black, his breath laboured and his hair disheveled where I have fisted them in my pleasure. His body is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and he is trembling slightly from desire.

He is so beautiful, my little brother.

I smile and caress his lips with my thumb. He opens them as he knows he must.  I put the tip of my thumb in the corner of his mouth, and he his tongue sneaks to lick it.

I smile more. "So, little brother... Now that the hedge is off we are ready to begin."

He closes his eyes as a shudder pass in his body, almost a convulsion. He leans into my hand, his eyes half closed, his well-fucked mouth open.

 

I tuck myself back in and regard him kneeling next of the fireplace. I take another sip of my wine, considering.

The fire creaks and the sounds of merrymaking floats to us from the party downstairs. I smile and stand up, walking to the other side of the bed.

"Take off your boots and stand up." I order, without turning. I hear the rustle of skirts as he obeys. I smile some more. Good.

I put down the empty wine glass on my night table. I kneel to open it with a key always on my neck and peruse the boxes inside. Polished woods of all colour, from birch white to ebony black. I caress each one, the wood so smooth it feels like silk. Which one, tonight…?

My hands stop on the maple box. It is a favourite. But no… no tonight. I pass it over and select a cherry-wood box, red and luscious.

I stand up again and round the bed. Carver is standing, hands on his side and chest heaving, his bare feet on the ground under his skirts. He looks at me, then at the box in my hands. He licks his lips and a tremor pass in his body, his hands contracting at his side. It is a new one. He doesn't know what is in there, what I am going to use on him.

This is the idea, after all. Him, not knowing.

I wait, giving him a moment to feel the anticipation. I smile, tender and rapacious at once.

He relaxes his shoulders and his head bows a little, black hair falling around his temples.

I put the box on the armrest, careful to balance it just so, and turn.

"Lie down on the rug. On your back. Knees up." I whispered to him. He obeys readily, almost falling on the ground in his eagerness. I stop him as he is sitting up still with a hand on his shoulder. The simple touch is enough to make him tremble a little. I smile and take a pillow from the bed, putting it where his shoulders and head will rest on the ground. He would have done without. I wouldn't.

 A little shove, and he goes down. Slowly, he raises his knees. His checks turn pinks as he does so, his fair skin showing it all. I watch him. It is endearing, that he can still blush after all we have done. I smile. Then I let my gaze drift down, past his chest and belly. The skirts have tented, so he can't see himself. Oh, he knows what he looks like, but being unable to see it and knowing I can… It is different. So very different.

He has no underclothes. He never dons any when he knows we are going to play our games. How often have I touched him under the table, as he tried to make conversation with nobles or Mother, his words failing in his mouth even as he opened his legs more for my hand.

I smile. Not today.

Today he is showing himself to me, hard and leaking and beautiful. He is as big as his frame implies, his balls smooth and hairless, his foreskin already retracted, all of him begging to be touched.

Not now, though.

I open the box. There is a soft click and he shudders once more. I take out a small vial of slippery balm and close it again. The rest is for later. I stand up and walk around him, putting the vial on his belly, just over his bellybutton.

He looks at it and swallow.

I smile.

"Prepare yourself. I'll watch." I say, so very softly.

I walk backward and sit on the armchair once more. He takes the vial and open it. It takes him two tries, his hands shaking. He coats his own fingers in the balm and stops for a second, looking at them. Then he looks at me, still on the ground, his shoulders and head unmoved.

I smile and raise my eyebrow in challenge. He frowns at me and takes a deep, gulping breath. Then he raises his knees, letting the skirt pool around his belly, and his hand sneaks down, past his straining prick and aching balls, to caress his own puckered entrance.

He doesn't touch himself. He knows better than this.

His breath hitches as he slips one coated middle finger inside, fucking himself slowly. I am sitting on the hedge of the seat, hypnotized by the beauty of the sight in front of me. His fingers are big, too, and his arse clenches and unclenches around the first one.

"More, Carver." I whisper. He complies, a second finger sliding in with the first. He goes on and on, fucking himself with his fingers. I think about how his own arse feels to him. I know well, oh so well, how warm it is, how it tightens and loosens around your fingers or your cock. It is the turn of my own breath to falter. I lick my lips. His eyes are set on me. He is watching me watching him, and for a second something like a smile play on his lips.

Oh no, little brother. You don't rule this show.

"Another one." He closes his eyes as he does what I order him to do. The third finger needs some time to be worked in with the other. Time in which he groans and whispers and moans, little sounds of naked need escaping from his throat without his knowledge nor consent. His stomach quivers as the balm makes his effects known, makes him feel even more open, and needy, and hot inside.

Then the third finger is in, and I look down again, watching as he fucks himself in earnest, each pass of his fingers stroking that spot inside him. His left hand clenches and unclenches on his side, the desire to touch himself almost overwhelming. Only almost. He won't disobey so much, oh no.

Not unless he wishes for the… punishment.

But not today.

I watch the scene, the Templar's skirts rumpled around his middle, his feet in the hair, his cock quivering and leaking as he finger-fucks himself in earnest. He could come from this, just this. His own fingers in his arse, my eyes on him. I could watch him cry out in pleasure as his seed splash all over his Templar's insigna, watch as his arse  jerks around his fingers.

I would just have to order him to.

I smile and caress the velvet of the armchair.

No. Not today.

"Do you do this in the barracks when you are alone?" I purr, in a low voice. He shudders and his fingers move faster inside him. "Thinking of me? Do you fuck yourself with your own fingers thinking that they are mine?" His whole body trembles. He loves my fingers inside him. They are narrower than his own, but nimbler. And I am a mage.

I kneel.

"Stop!" The order is harsh and abrupt, a far cry from my previous mellow commands. His whole body tightens, from the line of his shoulders to his toes contracting in the air. Then he lets go and his fingers stall.

Still inside him to the second knuckle. I said stop, not out. I bow and kiss the back of his trembling hand, so close to his cock that I can smell it. My mouth water. Not now.

"Good boy." I say, soft once more. He breaths our at the praise. "Out now."

The fingers leaves his inside slowly. I take his wrist and put it on his side, looking at that hungry, loosened hole. Soon. But before, I take the sash that keeps up his skirts. I unwind it, just a little, just enough, and wind it around his wrist. Tightly, but not too tight, tying him with his hands on his side, the palm flat on the outside of his thighs. He knows of this, and raise his hips to help me. I smile at him in silent thanks. Or something very akin to it.

I  am so close, I can smell his scent, male and musky and strong, and feel his heat on my skin and hear his ragged, so very ragged, breath. I press a kiss on his side, just above the sash, letting my tongue sneak a taste of him and he shudders for me. I close my eyes and smile against his skin.

I sit on my haunches and survey my handiwork. His chest glisten wish sweat. He had almost no hair, my brother, in spite of the darkness of his head. His checks are pink, and his tied hands tremble, just a little. His cock and arse are so very ready for me. I touch the very tip of his prick with two fingers, massaging it on and around the slit. He stills completely, his breath so very, very fast. It is hot and smooth and the precome oils my movements.  I look down, past his prick and balls. Carver's arse is clenching around nothing, the reddish balm glistening in the firelight. I know how he feels, how empty and desperate, tight coils of desire curling in his belly and arse, wanting, **needing** to be full, to be **fucked**. This is why I leave it for now. Let it build up.

"You have been good." I purr. "Good boys get rewarded." I leave unsaid the part about bad boys and punishments. He knows that, too. "So… What do you want?"

It is a high reward indeed. He opens his eyes and looks at me toying with his cock. I smile. He swallows and tries to speak. I take a deep breath and muster all, all my control over my magic. I let the tiniest spark, the most fleeting of magic travel between my fingers.

He jerks and cries out, still muffled. I made a sound. "Carver, Carver… what if somebody hears you?" I whisper, still caressing the tip of his prick. Nobody can, of course. Not today. He is grinding his arse down now, searching for something that is not here. His movements are jerking and desperate. I look at his face, wondering if it is enough. I open my mouth to speak my last order.

"Please… fill me. Please brother. Fill me." His words are broken and ragged, but he isn't at his limits. Not yet.

I smile and relax. I turn to the cherry box and open it. I survey what is inside and takes out a wooden plug. I take the balm and coat it thoroughly. He watches me and takes deep, calming breaths.

Or tries to, at least. There is little that could calm him now, as neither of us is in the mood for ice, and the box lid prevents him from seeing what is going inside him.

I smile and looks in his eyes as I caress his arse, grating the rim a little with the tip of my nails. He shudders. Two fingers of mine enter him easily. He is warm and slick from the balm and he clenches around me almost lovingly, as he wants to swallow my fingers. He lets out a moan of pure pleasure mixed with relief at the simple feeling of being filled and grinds wantonly against me. He looks at me without shame, with _gratitude_ , as if the my fingers in his arse were a gift. He opens his legs even wider in welcome and I twist my fingers inside him as reward. I could finger him for hours, watching as everything slips away from him, from the concerns of the outside world to his very self. I could finger him until he forgets his name, forgets even that there is a higher pleasure to seek, until all he knows is the bliss of my fingers and my magic deep inside him.

I could do it, indeed. He would allow it, and beg for more.

He is perfect. And never more so than now.

"One day, I'll put my whole hand in you." I breathe. It is something I had been thinking for a while. But this is the first time I try the idea with him. I watch as his bound arms jerks on his sides, his eyes widening and his legs trembling. Oh yes. "I'll start slowly, as now. Two fingers, stretching you for more. Then I'll put a third inside." I do as I say, and he starts to fuck himself on my fingers, groaning, breathing hard. "Perhaps I'll play around you for a while. Loosening you up well." I wriggle my fingers inside and he almost cry out. He bits his lips, trying to breathe through his nostril. Maker but he is beautiful like this, such a sight, and all mine, only mine. "Then I'll put in a fourth. That will be easy. I'll go on and on, playing you until you can't stand it anymore. I'll oil you so, so well, until you are all slippery inside and outside. And then I'll put my whole hand in you." I keep whispering. But I don't do it. Not today. It is a new idea and as I watch his body tremble and jerk and shudders at my word, I know it is not an unwelcomed one. But I'll give him time.

I always do.

"Would you like it, Carver? Me inside you to my forearm? Feeling all of that in you?" I purr again.

"Ma… Maker. Yes. Yes!" I look at him in surprise. I did not expect an answer. He fucks himself harder on my fingers, his feet planted on his sides and his hips undulating in a way that is sin all in itself. I caress his spot inside, and send a tiny sparkle to reward his honesty. He yells to the top of his lugs and I smile, thanking the silencing spell.

I take my fingers out and put the plug in. Slowly. Letting him feel all the ridges and bumps. I push gently at first, his hole stretching around the wider part. Then it passes and he swallows it greedily. I look at it going inside and breathe out. I turn it a little through the handle. Carver groans out loud, his toes and fingers clenching and unclenching, his arsehole quivering. I brush my lips against the top of his knee and I lay down on Carver's side, and kiss his red lips slowly. Just his lips, just a peck. Almost innocent in the midst of all this. His tongue searches for mine, but I deny him for now. The fire is warm on my back. I put my left arm on the pillow behind is head and take his cock in my right hand. His prick fills my palm so well. I start to jerk him off as he grinds against the ground, making the plug jerks inside him. He looks so beautiful. I grind myself a bit against the back of his hand, still ties at his side. I am hard again, have been for a while.

"Bro… Brother."

I kiss his lips again. "Shhh. You have been good. You can let go if you want." I kiss his neck.

He surprises me again. He shakes his head. "I have… I have been good. Please. Please fuck me. Please I want you."

I raised my head and look at him, still stroking his cock. He looks back at me. His blue eyes are all black now. He is holding back, holding himself from above the hedge.

He has such a self-control, my little brother. Few people know.

"I'll… I'll make it so good for you. I'll milk you dry…" I close my eyes and groan. I take my hand away from his cock and put it in his hair, turning his head so that our mouths meet to silence him. He kisses me back fiercely and I am drowned. I held him to me, my brother, my only one and groan in his mouth. He tastes like my come and tangy blood and like himself.

When we parts I know we wear matching mad looks. I stand up and started to undress. He looks at me, wild eyed and beautiful beyond words, all glistening skin and coiled strength. I take off my doublets and take off my slippers. I stand for a second, bare chest and bare feet, my pants straining for him. Then I take them off, too. He looks at me naked, and I can see he thinks I am as beautiful as I know he is.

"Turn around." I say, soft. He complies, still bound. He kneels against on the rug, his face in the pillow, tilting his hips just so as to present his plugged arse to me, like an offering. I kneel on his back and unwind the sash, letting the last part of his armor fall on the ground. He brings his hands to his head and presses his forehead on his forearms, trembling and waiting and perfect.

"Perfect." I whisper. "You are perfect, Carver." I kiss that place where his back dimples into his checks, mouthing the truth into his skin. "Perfect and wonderful and mine."

I take the plug out as I speak, his body tries to hold onto it, but he surrenders in the end, throwing his head back wantonly. His back stretch as he does so, as sinuous as a cat, each hollow and muscle starkly defined in the flickering light. I kiss his neck, tasting the salt on his skin as I put myself in line with his arse and press in. He yields to me, opening up and swallowing me whole. I glide home in a single, smooth thrust that has both of us groaning. He is tight and warm and he clenches lovingly around me. I lower myself over his back and takes both his hands in mine, twining our fingers. He tilts himself as I do so, keeping his cheeks on my pelvis, and I bit that sinewy, sensitive place where his shoulder meets his neck and keeps him in place with my teeth and hands.

Then I start fucking him in earnest, every thrust made to hit him exactly there, exactly where he wants it. I lick the place I had bit and he shudders tasting his fluttering heartbeat. He can't move, not without parting us more. He can just stand here, and take it, take it all, pinned by my hands and mouth and cock. He moans and whispers and groans and his arse clenches and unclenches around me, milking my prick.

I move faster, harder, and he almost yells at every thrust inside, whining every time I retreat from him. I put my lips to his ear. "Come." I breathe. "Come for me Carver. Then I'll come in you, coat you inside… Come around my cock little Brother. Do it. Now."

And he does.

He throws his head back, exposing the whole of his neck and let go of a soundless shout, his fingers contracting around mine, his arse clenching around my cock as his seed shoots from him in scalding spurts. He is so beautiful, his expression so unguarded and open and raw as he looks into my eyes and come and come again, showing to me every bit of bliss I have wrangled from him. He keeps his eyes into mine, so beautiful and so brave. I bit into the exposed neck and keeps my teeth here as I pound in him even harder. I come, pleasure wracking me more than any enemy could. I shout into his shoulder and taste his blood, our blood, as my seed coats him inside and he clenches his arse around me lovingly, milking every drop from me, again and again until I have nothing back to give.

He collapses on the ground, and I collapse on his back, as spent as he is, sticky sweat gluing us together but even that feels good, so good. For a second, I let the aftershock of pleasure make me boneless.

Then I retreat, with care, and take a clean cotton rag from the cherry box. I clean him, then myself. I take the second vial and gently coat his arse and his inside. A healing balm against any soreness, and an antidote for the effect of the first unguent. I throw the rag in the fire to burn, and put the plug away to be cleaned later. I glance at my brother. Carver is still breathing raggedly, but it is getting calmer by the second. I stand up on shaky legs, and take a special blanket from the bed and drapes it around him. He would soon be cold without.

I pour a glass of ginger-mint water and I kneel by his head and move a lock of black hair from his eyes. "Do you need anything else?" I ask, softly, as I give him the water.

He allows me to put the glass to his lips and swallows it with pleasure. I smile. Carver always loved ginger-mint water. This is why I keep it from the aftermath of our games.

"Don't you have anything stronger than this?"

I raise an eyebrow and look at my glass of wine. "… and none of your sparkly piss, neither."

I smile. "That 'sparkly piss' sells for a sovereign a bottle, brother."

He snorts. "I stand corrected. None of that sparkly _expansive_ piss neither."

I laugh. His smile flashes for a second, as bright as lightening in a storm. "I'll get you something better. Food?"

He frowns. "Any ham? There was something good before."

I listen, remembering the world outside for the first time. No more sounds of merry-making. The party must have wound itself off. I stand up and put on my home clothes. "I'll go check. Stay warm."

He snorts and closes his eyes. I step outside, wondering if he would be asleep by the time I was back. I managed to sneak in the kitchen, the house silent and dark after the party has ended, the only lights the ones coming from the windows, illuminating the silhouettes of empty punch bowls and richly decorated tables and haphazard chairs. I take several hams sandwiches and a bottle of nice whiskey and walk up again with the tray in my hands.

Carver is very much awake, and in my bed, still wrapped in the blanket, his tousled head looks so very good on my pillows, but he is frowning as he watched the fire.

I click the door closed behind me. He does not turn.

"I have food." I put the tray by him. He takes a deep breath and turn to look at me. I caress his head. This is guilt time.

I may not care for sins. But Carver does. He cares I am sinning for him, at the very least.

"Again with the fact you should have never told me, little brother?" I ask, pouring him half a glass of whiskey.

"… I shouldn't have."

I shrug. "I am happy, you are happy, nobody is hurt. Who cares?"

"… You could have had a…"

I laugh. "Carver, if you were about to say 'a normal life', may I remember you who is the delicate mage flower here?"

A fleeting smile passes on his lips. "There is that." He pauses and takes the whiskey, sipping it. I give him a ham sandwich. It would do him no good, all that alcohol with only my come in his stomach. He wolfs it down, spreading crumbles all over my bed. I smile. I don't say he could have had a normal life. He tried. He wanted me more than that, in the end.

The thought shouldn't make me as happy as it does. But then again, I never cared for shoulds neither.

I put an arm around his shoulders and take a sandwich myself. I watch him move, mindful for any soreness in his chest and arms.

He notices. Of course. He frowns at me. "I am not made of glass." He growls. "If you think **that** could hurt me, brother, you haven't paid attention to what I can do."

I smile and put my lips to his temple. "I know what you can do. You are amazing, Carver." He squirms at the sincerity of my voice, even while trying not to glow at the praise. "But that doesn't mean I can hurt you."

"Well, you haven't." He reaches for another sandwich.

I smile more. "Good then."

I stay there, my head on his own, breathing the smell of sex and fire and ham and alcohol and something else that just means brother to me. I caress his check with two fingers, curling them around his jaw. He turns to me, and our lips meet almost without our consent. We kiss slow and deep, in all the ways that mean **us** , and his big, strong arms rise to hold me to him and I feel safe.

I moan in his mouth.

My brother. My beautiful, stubborn, perfect little Brother.

As our tongues dance around each other, I think I had never wished to love him less than I do.

 


	2. How It Began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No sex here, I am sorry. The tale of how it began between this Hawke and Carver :) There is likely to be more, with sex :P

"Couldn't you try to get along, dear?"

I close my eyes and count to ten. "Yes, Mother. I was getting along with him. Before he decided to stomp out of the room." My voice is calm. Living with my Mother has taught me more about how to control my emotion than a lifetime of demons in the Fade.

I smile at the thought.

"You weren't getting along with him, Hawke. You acted like he was a complete stranger, not your brother. Up until the moment you told him that if he hated you, he could takes it out on you and not other mages."

I open my eyes and look at her.

Mother has flourished since she has come back to Kirkwall. Her eyes are no more as sparkling as when Father lived, but neither are they as sunken as they used to be. Her clothes are as impeccable as her manners. She looked right there, in the study of her estate, amidst the rich carpets and velvet chairs and exotic statues.

Lady Leandra Amell.

I sometime wonder if I took something from her at all. I doubt it. She dresses in silk, I prefer leather armors. She cherishes parties and gossip, I prefer hunting with bow and arrows and eating my prey on the open fires.

Truly we have little in common.

I clench my finger over the armchair. The velvet feels good.

"He is a stranger, Mother." I said nothing about the second part. What there is to say? My brother hates me. If the thought is acid on my soul, well, there is nothing to it.

She looked at me. For a second, I wonder if she will pretend to be shocked. She doesn't.

"Hawke I… am sure he had his reasons."

I thin my lips. "A slaver has reasons to enslave people too. It doesn't make it right. And I don't have to pander to him. He is an adult, and makes his choice. So be it. He takes his consequences too." I doubt losing me was such a dreary consequence for my little brother. More of a blessing.

I try to pretend it doesn't hurt as much as it does. Not in front of Mother. I was there, and almost killed myself. Because it would be better for them, wouldn't it? For Mother. And most of all, for Carver. No more uncomfortable mages around. No more **burdens**. No…

No. Not in front of Mother, and not in general.

A thunder crash outside and we both turn toward the windows. It is not raining, but the air is cool and heavy and the clouds run like horses in the sky. It is early afternoon and it looks like evening already. It will pour today.

She sighs. "I have to go. Lady and Lord Vallois are having a party for Satinalia in their country house. If I don't depart now, I'll never arrive before the rain." She stops and regards me. I groan inwardly. "Hawke are you sure…"

"Quite sure, Mother."

She sighs once more but doesn't press the issue. I stand up and kiss her goodbye. I watch as she leaves, with Orana. Bodhan and Sandàl and the other servants have the day off too. The Estate seems eerie and emptier than it should. I pat Ser Barknight on the head and the sound is too loud in the emptiness. Tomorrow I'll go to the Hanged Man and exchange presents with the others. I smile at the idea.

Today, I go back to my study. I have some accounting to do.

I do not cherish accounting, if anybody does. But it is necessary for any merchant, even more so one like me who keeps his assets divided in several ports. I have hot wine and sweets and sandwiches and the fire is roaring and Ser Barknight is at my feet. Soon, the sound of rain makes a pleasant counterpoint to the cracking of the fire.

A loud knocking at the door.

I look up, startled. What is happening? Coterie's thug and enemies don't knock on doors. I stand up and adjust the daggers always at my belt and walk toward the door. The sound is heard twice more. I frown. Impatient, are we?

I open the door.

Carver staggers inside, drenched from head to toe, the skirt of his templar armor leaving water in their wakes.

I close the door in front of a lightening.

The hall is suddenly full of smells. Rain and mud. And alcohol. Too much even for the downpour to wash away.

Carver lifts his head to look at me, blue eyes fraught with red. His chest his heaving, carrying the Templar symbol up and down with his breath.

I hate it.

He keeps looking at me without speaking, clenching and unclenching his gauntled hands. The metal clicks loud in the silence.

I said nothing. What there is to say? He has stayed behind to drink, and the barge to the Gallows is surely not running in this weather.

His eyes have not left me.

I can feel my expression freezing, the polite smile I use for strangers curling my lips.

I don't manage to finish it.

He lounges at me, with a clancking of metal that sound loud and desperate in the silence. My back is at the door, slamming into it, knocking the breath out of me. His hands are my chest, rumpling the soft outer leathers and lifting me up. I am surprised. Bewildered. Carver, what…?

His lips are on mine, and the question is meaningless.

He kisses me like a man in a desert would kiss a lake. My lips part in shock, and he tastes like cheap alcohol and lyrium and something else that reminds me of myself. Something hard is pressing against my hip, and it is no dagger.

My brother is kissing me.

I make a sound, why I don't know.

He lets me go as abruptly as he had picked me up and takes a step back, panting. I look at him, my lips still open and tingling.

What…

" I do not… hate mages. I am not… I am not hurting them. I am trying to help them. When I can how I can. I do not… I love you." His voice seems to break the spell and I blink once.

Carver stands in the center of the rug, dripping water and mud on it. His fists are clenched at his side, his feet set wide. He looks at me and strucks out his chin and squares his shoulders.

Waiting for a blow.

He is so brave, my little brother.

He loves me.

I breath out.

"No. That did not… look like hate" I conceded.

It is his turn to blink and look at me bewildered. I passed a hand on my face. It is wet where his hair has dripped over me.

"Maker, Carver. You have a way to make declaration."

He blinks again, uncertainty flickering on his gaze.  "You are… not going to hit me?"

I shook my head. "For this? No." A pause. "For how long, Carver?"

For the first time, he gazes away. The pain flickering on his expression kills something in me. My little brother. I never wanted for you to suffer. How badly I have mangled that.

"Years. I… tried. To… to make it stops. Go away." He closes his eyes. "It doesn't."

I take a step toward him. His eyes widen. I have never thought of it. But he is suffering. I can make it go away.

Perhaps it is wrong. But then again, so is my existence for many people.

I have never seen him like this before. Open. Vulnerable. **Mine**. It is fascinating.

I raise a hand to his face. When I touch him he shivers and closes his eyes.

"You… you cannot have wanted too…" I almost don't recognize his voice, it s so deep.

"No" I agree. He flinches away. My hand follow him. "I have not. But it doesn't mean I am not willing to."

I do not know what I am doing. I only know I am doing it for him. What wouldn't I do for him after all? And this is easier than dying.

"Were they fantasy, Carver? Or true wishes?"

He keeps his eyes close. But he is brave. So he answers in words that are barely breath. "True wishes."

I bring his lips to mine.

He yields to me, so beautifully. As soon as my tongue caress his lips, he parts them eager as a puppy to play. The tension leaves his body. So this is what you want from me, little brother? I seize his forearm and spin him around, still kissing him. It is my turn to pin him to the door. He moans deep in his throat and his hardness is against hot and hard against me, in spite of gowns and sashes. Yes, this is what you want from me.

I'll give it to you, Carver. Whatever you want to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is.   
> Hawke would do anything for his little brother. Anything at all. Not the most healthy of relatonship perhaps, but they are happy. :)


	3. The First Night

My brother is under me in my bed.

I do not know how it ended like this.

I stop kissing him and shove him back down in the bed, using his broad shoulders for leverage to right myself up. My eyes are fixed on his face.

Does he like this?

He parts his lips and groans out loud and goes down willingly. My own lips curl. Yes. He likes it.

I make a show to look at him, letting my gaze sweep like a caress over him. Broad, strong shoulders. Wide chest with only a smattering of dark, wiry hair. The scars heightens his perfection to me, as does the tattoo on his left breast. Small nipples hardened by the cold air.

I lick my lips. My fingers twitch with desire to play with them.

I think he would like it.

I let my gaze travels lower and his breath hitches. He opens his legs a little more, as if to show himself to me and something inside me clenches and releases.

I have seen him already, of course. We are brothers. We shared a room for many years, including one in Gamlen's hovel. There was no place for privacy.

Yes, I have already seen him.

But not like this.

He is big and wide and so very, very hard. A small drop is glistening on the tip. His balls are smooth and strangely hairless, like the rest of him.

Oh yes.

I look up to him again, placing a hand on the inside of his tight. It is the only place where I am touching him. He is wide eyed and blushing and shudders when my fingers trace idle patterns in the soft skin in the inside of his tight. His hands are clenching and unclenching on my hips.

I am still clothed.

I plan to stay like this for a while.

"Put your hands on the headboard, Carver. If you let go, I'll stop." A way out for him. But also a way to see if he would obey the order.

And how.

He obeys without hesitations nor words, raising his hands above his head. The cushions force him to bend his back, showing off his chest.

I smile at the display.

"Good boy." I whisper, softly knowing he would hear. He does, and shiver. I lock his eyes with mine and smile. "Good boys get rewarded." I purr.

Before he can wonder, I bend down and take the tip of his cock in my mouth, never breaking eyes contact. He is wider than anybody I ever had, and the feel of him over my tongue is good, so good.

I want to feel him in the back of my throat.

I suck once, hard, tasting the drop on the tip and he lets out a gargled sound between a moan and a shout. He won't last long.

I let his cock out of my mouth with an audible pop and smile at him again. He is panting, his black hair glued to his forehead with sweat, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the headboard to the point I fear it would crack.

He looks so wild and beautiful, my little brother.

For a moment, I hesitate. There is so much I would like to do to him. So, so much. And I believe he would love it all and beg for more.

The thought of hearing him beg sent a spark from my cock to my brain and I groan.

He looks at me and it is his turns to smile.

And yet…

There are things whence there are no going back.

Fucking your brother is one of them.

I take a deep breath.

"Carver are you s…"

"Get the fuck on with it." His voice is a growl.

I tighten my fingers over his knees. I am tethering. This would tie us, beyond the blood we already share. He needs me. I should have refused him this, I know, I know. But he is naked and obedient and looks at me with daring fury in his eyes and he is the most perfect and brave thing I had ever ever seen.

I can't lose him.

I feel a smile on my lips.

"So little brother… did you ever do anything with a man?" I ask in a purr. As I speak, I let my fingers beyond his balls, to caress his entrance. The small hole twitches under my fingers.

He jerks and blushes and shakes his head. No.

I take a deep breath as my eyes falls on his lips. The idea of seeing my cock disappear there, to know I am the first to feel the brush of his tongue and the seal of his lips…

But no.

Other things first.

"Ah… good to know I'll be the first." I smile again and stand up from the bed. I can feel his eyes following me as I go to the nightstand and take out a pot of elfroot balm, the slippery oil I use for sore muscles.

He swallows and plants his feet on the bed, desire and apprehension warring on his features.

I'll make sure desire will win.

I put the open pot on the bed, and leave it here. Let him know what is going to happen.

But not now.

I sit between his parted knees again and lower myself on his body, letting him feel the smoothness of the fabric. He jerks up, trying to get frictions on his neglected cock.

I tsked and stop him, my hands on his hips.

"No, Carver, bad boy. Bad boy gets punished." I pause and add in a whisper in the shell of his ear. "Since it is the first time, there won't be any punishment now… but there will be the next time." I kiss the soft spot behind his ear, sneaking a taste with the tip of my tongue. He shudders. "Understood?"

He jerks his head in a yes and then stays utterly still.

I smile.

I went on in my exploration. Behind his ear. I kiss his neck and nimble at it, sucking at the pulse. He whispers and moans. I let my hand travel on his flanks and tights. I can feel him quivering with the need to trust, but he stays still.

He has so much self control, my little brother.

I stand up and lick my fingers, his eyes following every movements. I caress his nipples, softly at first, then I roll them among my fingers and squeeze them roughly. He jerks up and moans. I grin. So sensitive…

I wonder…

But no, better to leave magic for another moment.

Which will come.

But not today.

"Do you like it, when I play with you little brother?" I ask, always softly. He clenches his teeth and his tights quiver once more. I smile and pinch him, a small reward. He groans again. I know how he feels, how it feels like his pebbled nipples are connected to his cock, making him tremble when I play with them, with him.

Oh yes.

I stop my playing and bend down to kiss him. I take possession of his mouth and it is rough and hot and perfect. I suck his tongue, playing with it and he lets me, moaning and groaning deep into his throat.

My left hand sneaks toward the pot with the balm and my fingers dip in it. I coat them through and through, without stopping our kiss.

Then I am caressing his rim and he shudders in my kiss. I deepen it even more, biting his lower lips, not enough to draw blood but enough to make him feel.

And I push a finger inside him.

It is hot and velvet and it clenches around me. I retract from breath and looks deep into his eyes. They are almost all black now, and there are red splashes of colour on his checks and necks. His adam's apple is moving.

I smile and keep fucking him with my finger.

"How it is, little brother? To have my fingers in you?" I add the second one as I speak, and I move both in a leisure pace, trying not to think about how it would be when it'll be my cock buried there, inside him.

"…I…" I caress inside him, searching, searching… "G…Good…"

Then I find the place. He shudders once more and let out a strangled sound.

I smile. Found it.

"Only good?" I purr. "My, I must do better than it."

I lower myself to kiss him again.

I fuck his arse with my fingers and his mouth with mine. Soon he is meeting my fingers, slamming himself down on them and groaning in my mouth. I caress that place inside him again and again. He is searching for my mouth now, but I deny him anything but light kisses on his lips.

"Would you like to suck my cock?" I ask, breathless, between kissing his soft, pliant lips. "To feel it between your lips?" I lick them as I speak and add a third finger. He barely notices, grinding himself harder on them, on me. He looks too wild to speak. Ah, little brother, nobody ever played with you how you like it, didn't they?

I smile some more and slam my fingers into his arse, all the three of them hitting that place inside. He shouts. "Say it. Say what you want me to do to you."

"I want your cock." Another slam. His arse clenches around my fingers like a vine. "I want your cock."

It takes what little control I have left not to show any surprise. He looks at me, eager and quivering and in control. I slam my fingers inside him twice more, seeking to make him tumble over the hedge. I can, I know I can do it without touching his cock which lay hard and leaking and perfect and completely untouched.

Carver clenches his jaw and jerks. The headboard cracks.

"I won't… come, not unless you… Fuck!" I presses the fingers of my free hand behind his balls, massaging him roughly from outside and inside. He is so responsive. I am breathing hard and my clothes have a tent and a wet spot.

I want to fuck him. He looks at me and stiffens.

No, he won't give up. My stubborn, perfect little brother.

"Beg me."

I expected resistance.

But Carver always had a way to surprise me.

"Please… please fuck me."

I take my fingers out of him and he groans. I do not know how I lowered my clothes. I remember his eyes lowering to look at me as I had looked at him, and their flash of desire and his legs falling even more open as I put myself between them.

I tangle my left hand in his black hair, forcing his neck back. He looks at me. He had no choice but. His eyes are black and blue and wild and open and trusting. I almost close mine.

But I have forced him to look at me. The least I can do is to look at him.

I guide myself over his loosened entrance and press in, looking, always looking.

His warmth softness welcomes me. His eyes widens some more and we both pant and grit our teeth.

I glide in, his hips tilting upward as I do, and his pelvis aligning himself just so. I slide in the last inches and stop.

He is clenching around me and swallowing around nothing, his arms still gripping the headboard with all his might. I wait, holding on whatever shred of control I have.

Then a new light pass in his eyes, and a quirk pass over his lips, fleeting like a bird's wing. The flutterings around my cock take a more precise rhythm and he moves his hips as much as he can, my cock sliding in and out for a inch, rotating to find that place inside him that…

He stops and groans, our hips angled. Then he moves in the same way and moans again, using my cock to please himself.

I love it.

The feeling. The friction. The heath. His gaze.

I lose all control.

I start pounding in him, pushing his head back to expose his neck, his face, his eyes. He opens his legs as much as he can and wraps them around my hips, moving to meet each one of my trust.

"You… you are going to come." I pant, looking into his eyes. "And then I am, I am going to come inside you, cream all your inside. I am going to come deep into your arse little brother, you are going to go back to the barrack with my seed into your arse… "

He shudders and cries out, a strangled cry.

"Yes… Yes!"

He comes, shuddering under me, ropes of fluid all over his chest, as far as his face, his eyes never leaving mine.

My hips move once, twice, a staccato tempo without finery, then the pleasure overwhelm me too, and I mangle out his name as I coat his inside with me.

Then I fall down on the side, spent, one of my arm still around him. I am panting and so is he.

I stay still, shaking, for perhaps half a minute but then I force myself to lift myself up and I look at him.

He is still gripping the headboard, his eyes closed and legs down now, and he is shaking as much as I am.

"You can let it go now, you know." I murmur. He does, carefully, ripping finger after finger off, like it is hard to. I stand up. My clothes are a disgrace. I get rid of them and take the basin of water I use for my morning ablution and a rag. I go back and start to clean him, gently.

His eyes fly open and he looks at me with bewildered confusion. I say nothing as he watches me cleaning his chest of his seed.

"Turn around." My voice is soft, a different softness from the purring I used to give him commands, but he still obeys me.

I inspect him from damage, but between caution and the elfroot balm there is none. I sit by him and start massaging his shoulders.

"Why are you doing this?"

His face is hidden to me. Perhaps it makes it easier for him. "Because you always have to, after."

"I am not made of glass. This does not hurt me." There is a hint of his old growl in his voice. I smile.

"I know. Discomfort is also something I don't want to give to you, even if you can, indeed, take it. Do you want something? Water, food?"

A pause.

"Water."

I stand up and pour him a glass from my carafe. He gulps it down then put the glass on the nightstand, with care.

"I… was not expecting this."

I shrug. "We rarely get what we are expecting, Carver."

Pause, again. He is still belly down on the bed. I put a hand on his bare shoulders and listened to the rain and the fire.

"Are we… are you…"

I smile. "Going to do this again? If you want to."

"… I do."

I shrugs. "Yes then." I lower myself closer to him, and put my head where my hand was. His shoulders are strong and hard, and I can hear his heartbeat.

He doesn't turn to hold me, or anything like that. But as I put an arm around him, he shifts slightly to be closer to me.

I close my eyes. I do not tell him we will have to be careful. He knows it. There are things to be talked about, indeed. His words about helping mages, whatever he wants this to be an exclusive thing, how are we going to keep it secret.

But for now I am closer to my brother than I ever was, and his heart is beating calmer by the minute, and I am happy.

I drift off to sleep. The last thing I remember is his shifting, and strong arms closing around me, protecting and proud. Something soft brush my forehead, and I, already almost asleep, smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A NOTE ABOUT THE NOTE: This is a speculation about THIS particular Hawke/Carver relationship and family, it doens't hold for ANY Hawke/Carver - Hawke Family.
> 
> A Note About This Hawke/Carver Relationship: I am not often somebody who ship incest, because 9 times out of 10 it is abusive. This particular situation is not... healthy, but I do not believe it is abusive, hence the "Safe, Sane and Consensual" in the title.  
> The Hawke Family is a particular unit. The "Siblings" (Hawke, Carver, Bethany) are more close than the average because, for all of the children's childhood, it was just them. Yes, they could have friends, but the Big Secret would keep them aside from other children. Add to this that Bethany and Carver were already around 10 (and Hawke around 15/16) when they settled in Lothering you have the image of family that has to be tight, because there isn't anybody else. This is the reason Carver starts to develop feeling for his older sibling (this Carver is homoromantic and homosexual): he has interiorized that "other" people are not "us" and not to be trusted.  
> Then they lose Malcolm.  
> And then Bethany.  
> For this Hawke and this Carver, the blow was tremendous.   
> Then there was a year in which they had to cling to each other to survive, in a difficult and new city. So they leaned even MORE on each other.  
> Which is why Hawke didn't bring Carver on the Deep Road: fear of losing him. Carver joins the Templar to try to put distance between his sibling and him (because he knows they are "wrong" feeling) and to help mages. Ot is to be noted, Carver here is REALLY helping mages (as in: he is a part of the Underground. More in next chapters).   
> Carver however still has feelings for his brother, and when he is accused by Hawke to hate him, well...  
> This is how it ends.
> 
> About Hawke: differently from Carver, he could and would live and go on without having a sexual relationship with Carver (even if he would miss it a bit). Carver is the one who keeps coming to Hawke, and Hawke yelds to him. Carver knows, and feels a bit guilty. Hawke knows and doesn't give a damn.
> 
> On average, they are two people who are in a society that broke all relationship they could have toward other people, and as such threw them into each other arms. All in all, aside from some guilt on Carver's part, they are rather happy.


End file.
